The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

their complexes that they have no time to consider anyone else’s feelings. It was certainly plain to Ellen that the Kommissar did not even entertain the idea she might have any feelings at all. She began to think he actually suspected her of complicity.

Ellen had the impression that he thought she was lying through her teeth when she presented such a normal picture of Frank and their marriage. That he found it impossible to imagine she had not noticed anything odd about Frank’s behaviour before he disappeared – which of course she had, but surely nothing of any relevance that would interest the Kommissar.

It was Marthe who suggested that maybe Bill Plattner was connected with the whole story. And Ellen had to admit that, when she added up all the features of Frank’s relationship with him, the theory was not implausible. The man certainly had a strange influence on Frank – she recalled the time she found them together in Bill Plattner’s studio – and he always had plenty of money to throw around. His expensively renovated cottage was only the most obvious example. And it was after becoming friendly with him that Frank started acting so strangely. Maybe that’s what he meant by “reinventing” himself, she thought. Perhaps it really was the psychosis of drug abuse. Suddenly nothing seemed impossible any longer.

The Kommissar’s ears pricked up at this part of Ellen’s story. His eyes were alight with the excitement of making what he saw as a significant discovery. It was clear that he found the Bill Plattner connection plausible as well. At last Ellen had given him something he could get his teeth into, and for once her words had left him with a satisfied smile on his face. This gave her hope that it would be the last time she would be subjected to his tedious questioning. In the last months of searching, wondering and waiting, she had become so estranged from Frank and everything about him that the flat insistence of the Kommissar’s one-track mind struck her as a huge waste of time for both of them. And it irritated her intensely. She was thankful to Marthe for her inspiration, albeit it slightly worried by the trouble that might now be brewing for Bill Plattner. For deep down, Ellen was quite sure the man had nothing to do with drug dealing or mafia-style killings any more than Frank.

When Marthe and Ellen took their leave of the two policemen, Ellen hoped dearly that she would never have to see them again. All she wanted now was to put everything behind her and get on with her life. As they left the interview room and walked into the corridor, Marthe touched Ellen on the arm, as if to detain her for a moment, and turned back to the Kommissar. It was a short conversation, and Ellen could not understand a word of what was said.

“I expect you would like to take Frank’s body back to England with you,” Marthe suggested when she turned back to Ellen and they were walking down the corridor.

“I hadn’t really thought about that.”

“Well, the Kommissar just explained that it will be some time before they can release the body. He will contact us when they’ve completed the autopsy.”

They did not exchange another word as they walked out of the building and back to the car. Heavy clouds loomed over them. But when the first drop of rain caught Ellen in the eye, it barely registered. She remained deep in concentration. And Marthe had no wish to disturb her thoughts.

As they drove to the Zellwegers’ house on the Bruderholz hill overlooking the city, Ellen imagined Frank wandering these streets, walking by the Rhine. He was always so fascinated by rivers, she told herself. He would surely have loved it here.

“You know,” she said, turning to Marthe at the wheel, “I’m sure Frank never thought for one moment about what should happen to him after his death. We certainly never discussed it, except to agree that we would both prefer to be cremated than buried. But I can imagine he might have liked the idea of his ashes being cast into the Rhine and carried away into the North Sea.”

Marthe looked askance at Ellen.

“How much would a funeral cost here?” Ellen asked. The question met with a long pause as they stopped and waited for traffic lights to turn green.

“I have no idea,” Martha replied after some hesitation. “But I can find out for you, if you like.”

Ellen interpreted her words as an offer rather than a commitment. But as soon as they arrived back at the Zellwegers’ house, Marthe fished out the yellow pages and began to make enquiries.

Ellen wondered how she could possibly have managed without the help of Marthe. It was not simply the way she took the onus of helping to cope with all the questions from the police, organising the practicalities of the funeral arrangements and collecting all the necessary documentation. It was also the selfless friendship she offered.

When the police eventually released Frank’s body, and they were able to set about making concrete arrangements for the funeral, Marthe even took it upon herself to select the music for the service. She noticed a flicker of discomfort in Ellen’s expression at mention of the word ‘service’ and was reminded of her difficulty with religion and the problem she had when they visited the basilica the year before. Marthe reassured her that it would be a secular event held in a chapel at the cemetery.

But when it came to the music, Ellen could not imagine even a secular service would sit comfortably with Frank’s taste, which probably would have been Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd or, at best, Miles Davis. So she was grateful for the exquisitely ethereal piece from Erik Satie that Marthe selected. And she was certain that Frank would also have approved.

But at the last minute, just the day before the service, Marthe included another piece.

“It’s just been released,” she